Suicide Kings Page 4

  Jackson Square

  New Orleans, Louisiana

  The mood was ugly in Jackson Square. The triple spires of St. Louis Cathedral glistened in their spotlights; nearby, Andrew Jackson waved his hat atop his rearing horse. That was normal enough, but as Jerusha approached, she realized that the crowd ahead of her was . . . wrong. The stench of death hung around them, and their faces were stiff and unresponsive.

  Zombies.

  There were at least a couple dozen, more than she’d seen Hoodoo Mama raise up for a long time. At least with Thanksgiving the usual crowds in Jackson Square were sparse, though there were still enough onlookers watching from a wary distance to make Jerusha nervous.

  Joey and Juliet were standing at the makeshift wooden “shrine” that enclosed Bubbles, its planks adorned with ribbons and handwritten testimonials. The thick pipes of Michelle’s feeding tubes stabbed into the white cloth that covered her body, which had sunk so deeply into the soft ground that pumps had to remove the water that would otherwise have flooded the depression. Jerusha could hear Joey shouting into the night. “Fuck them. Goddamn leeches. They stole her fucking money. Now they want to kill her, too? Well, fuck that.”

  Ink was standing next to Joey, an arm around her, her voice so quiet that Jerusha couldn’t hear it. Whatever she was saying, Joey didn’t like it. Her zombies muttered and groaned. “I ain’t gonna let that that cocksucker of a father and her cunt mother screw Michelle again. I ain’t.” Her lips were pressed into a tight line. A hardness came over her thin face. She ran a hand through the tangled shock of brown hair, ruffling the bright red streak. “I’ll fucking rip them both into a hundred fucking pieces. I swear.”

  “Ink, Joey,” Jerusha said loudly, skirting the edge of the zombie crowd. “Listen, you can’t . . .”

  She stopped at the sound of sirens, cutting through the low whine of the pumps driving Michelle’s feeding tubes. Along Decatur Street, a small motorcade pulled into the square, pulling up on the far side of Bubbles’s shrine, near a large grey electrical box. Jerusha plunged a hand into the open zipper of the pouch at her waist, fingering the seeds inside.

  NOLA SWAT police officers piled out of the first three black vans, their faces masked by riot helmets, armed with what looked to be shotguns. Ira and Sharon LaFleur emerged from a limousine, accompanied by another phalanx of policemen.

  Jerusha had always pictured them as villains, monsters who would steal money from their child. She’d expected their sins to be written on their faces, but they weren’t. Ira was balding and overweight, looking pudgy and ineffectual; Sharon’s face was drawn and haggard and thin, but the lines were those of a model: like her daughter’s face, what Bubbles might look like in another quarter century. They looked ordinary.

  “Motherfuckers!” Hoodoo Mama shrieked, and her zombies howled with her. Ink had both arms around Joey, clinging to her desperately. Joey pointed at the LaFleurs. “You miserable cocksuckers! You stay the fuck away from her, you hear me!”

  Sharon LaFleur looked at them, hand over mouth. The zombies started to shamble toward them. The cops shuffled nervously, weapons up and ready. “Joey, you can’t!” Jerusha shouted.

  Joey shook her head. “You kill her,” she screamed at the LaFleurs, “and I’ll just raise her up again. She’ll be the biggest fucking zombie in the whole goddamn world. You hear me, you cocksuckers?”

  Ira LaFleur nodded to the officers nearest the grey box, which now had a panel open. The low whine of the pumps driving Bubbles’s feeding tubes suddenly vanished. The silence was more terrible than any sound could have been.

  The zombies screamed as one, wordless. They advanced.

  “Damn it.” Jerusha pulled her hand from the pouch, fisted around the contents there. She flung them wide. As soon as the seeds hit the ground, they were rising, a wriggling carpet of vines that tore through the pavement of Jackson Square. Kudzu. Jerusha guided the growth in her mind, snarling the vines around the zombies’ legs, bodies, and arms, encasing them in living green chains. She coiled them around Joey and Ink for good measure. Hoodoo Mama glared at her, cursing wildly.

  The SWAT officers were piling back into the vans, hustling the LaFleurs back to their limo. With a scream of sirens, the cars backed away and sped off again.

  “Stop them!” Joey screeched. Spittle was flying from her mouth. “God damn it, Gardener, you’re a fucker just like them. Just like them. You’re letting them kill her.”

  Jerusha had no answer. “I’m sorry,” she told them.

  “Fuck you’re sorry,” said Hoodoo Mama. “And fuck you, too, cunt. You better hope that Bubbles doesn’t die. ’Cause if she does, you’re next.”

  Stellar

  Manhattan, New York

  After the meal—after the clink of silverware and the random chorus of burps and satisfied mmmmm’s died down, after the last slice of pumpkin pie had been tucked away (Wally had two pieces), when most of the conversation in the room was a hushed murmur as people slipped collectively into a digestive stupor—Wally excused himself and went over to Lohengrin’s table.

  Klaus was deep in conversation with Babel when Wally clanked up to their table. They must have been discussing something pretty intense because it took them a few seconds to notice Wally. He caught something about New Orleans, Sudan, and the Caliphate before they tapered off to look up at him. Babel grinned. “Happy Thanksgiving, Rustbelt.”

  Wally said, “Thanks. Um, you, too.” He didn’t know her very well, but she made him uncomfortable. He remembered how she’d sabotaged DB when he split with the Committee, and wondered if she’d do the same thing to him, since he and DB were friends.

  Lohengrin yawned. Two empty wine bottles rattled on the table when he stretched his legs. He motioned for Wally to sit and join them. “A good feast, ja?”

  “Oh, you bet,” said Wally, taking a chair. “I like them sweet potatoes with the marshmallows on top. Real tasty.” He nodded, and patted his stomach. His cummerbund muted, ever so slightly, the clang of iron against iron. “Hey, I have a question.”

  Lohengrin sat a little straighter. “What troubles you, my mighty friend?”

  “Well, see, I was wondering if we’d be doing anything in Africa sometime soon. I mean, you know, the Committee.”

  Babel assumed the tone that people did so frequently around Wally. The tone that spoke volumes about what they thought of him and his faculties. “Well, Rustbelt, it’s a very complicated situation. The Committee’s involvement with Noel Matthews in New Orleans put us on precarious footing with Tom Weathers, and by extension the Nshombos.”

  “Oh, sure. Sure. But I didn’t mean about any of that. It’s just, see, I have this pen pal. My friend Lucien. He and his family live up in the Congo thereabouts.”

  Babel cocked an eyebrow. “Pen pal?”

  “I sponsor him. I send a few dollars every month and it pays for his school and medicine and stuff.”

  “Ah.” Lohengrin nodded. He approved of noble causes.

  “Anyway, his last letter kind of worried me. He was real excited because he’d been chosen to attend a brand-new school. But he said that the soldiers who picked him told him he wouldn’t be allowed to write to me no more. And that when Sister Julie tried to stop them from taking the last bunch of kids to the school—Sister Julie is a nun in his village, you see—well, he said they hurt her. And I thought, that doesn’t sound right. I mean, what the heck kind of school has soldiers? So I figured, maybe the next time I go somewhere, you could send me to Congo and I could check in on him.”

  Babel said, “I don’t think that’s a good idea, Rustbelt. There’s no telling how Weathers and the PPA would react if they believed the Committee was encroaching on their territory.”

  “But I wouldn’t be, not really. I’d just be visiting Lucien and making sure the little guy is okay.”

  Again, that tone. “Yes, certainly. You know that, and we know that, but the Nshombos would never believe it. And, let’s face it, you aren’t inconspicuous. They
’d know you were there. Ostensibly on Committee business.”

  Lohengrin yawned again. “Frau Baden is correct that the situation is complicated. We must be careful with the Nshombos.” Wally slumped in his chair. “But,” Lohengrin continued, solemnly putting a hand on Wally’s shoulder, “your cause is just. I promise to do what I can to help your missing friend.”

  “Well, gosh. That’s swell, Lohengrin.” Wally practically leaped out of his chair, grinning. The Committee would help him go find Lucien! “I can’t wait.”

  “Yes. I believe that if I ask him, Jayewardene will make careful inquiries through diplomatic channels.”

  Inquiries? Oh. Wally tried to hide his disappointment. “Right. That’ll be a big help, no doubt. I sure do appreciate it.”

  He returned to his table, just long enough to say good night to Ana; the Llama had already left. Wally didn’t much feel like hopping in a taxi when he got down to the street, so he started walking in the general direction of Jokertown.

  A thin dusting of snow covered the sidewalks. It fell in large flakes that drifted slowly to the ground like cotton. The clouds overhead and the snow underfoot reflected the soft glow of the city in all its colors, making everything look like a Christmas tree decoration.

  Back home, Wally and his brother Pete used to make snow forts during Christmas vacation. He remembered countless snowball fights on winter mornings, too, waiting for the school bus. Lucien had loved hearing about stuff like that; to him, snow was the white stuff on distant mountains. Wally had secretly hoped he’d get to take him to the mountains someday, so he could see the snow firsthand.

  But Lohengrin and Babel had been pretty clear. If he wanted to go to Africa, he’d have to go privately.

  The Winslow Household

  Boston, Massachusetts

  They finished off the evening playing bridge and eating another round of pie before retiring to Niobe’s old bedroom. Niobe found this embarrassing and Noel found it charming. He investigated her bookcase filled with a collection of late Victorian and early twentieth-century children’s books—The Bird’s Christmas Carol, The Secret Garden, The Little Princess, Little Lord Fauntleroy. He rooted through the closet and discovered a stuffed animal collection (now consigned to the top shelf), and picked out a few choice specimens to take home to New York. For our baby, he thought, but neither of them gave voice to that. This was the fourth try, and they were both too superstitious to invoke the child out loud lest it lead to another miscarriage.

  Noel read aloud from Fauntleroy until Niobe’s eyelids dropped and her breathing slowed. “He had a cruel tongue and a bitter nature, and he took pleasure in sneering at people and making them feel uncomfortable. . . .” Noel’s voice died away. He slowly slipped his arm from beneath her, snapped off the light, and settled down to sleep.

  It took a long time because he kept replaying the conversation with Siraj, and wondering what it all meant.

  Rusty’s Hotel Room

  Jokertown

  Manhattan, New York

  “Um, hi? DB?”

  The phone receiver compressed the noise of a raucous party into a dull roar. “What? Who is this?”

  “It’s me, Wally.”

  A long pause. “Ollie?” DB sounded distracted. Then, more muffled, he shouted, “Hey! Leave that fucker for me!” This was followed by peals of high-pitched laughter. Wally had looked online; it was a little after eleven in Mumbai.

  “No, Wally. You know, Rustbelt?”

  Another pause. Then: “Rusty! How the hell are ya? Great to hear ya. Hey, guys, it’s Rusty!”

  This provoked a chorus of greetings from the other members of Joker Plague.

  “Same to you, fella. Look, I was wondering—”

  “You need tickets to the show? No problem! You’ve got a permanent backstage pass, you know that.” Something shattered, followed by more groupie laughter. Bottom shouted something that Rusty couldn’t quite make out. “Wait. You’re in India?”

  “What? No. But I was wondering, since your tour is winding up soon—”

  “—Yeah, one more month, then we’re back in the States. God damn it, S’Live, I told you to leave it—”

  “—if you’d wanna go to the Congo—”

  “—bongo drums? We don’t play much world music—”

  “—no, I said Congo, like the country—”

  “—country? Yeah, I hate that shit, too. What the hell is that? Hey, Rusty, I gotta go, I think I smell smoke. Take care of yourself, pal!” Click.

  Well, cripes. Wally had figured that if anybody would join him on a trip to Africa, it would be Drummer Boy. They’d been comrades in arms (and arms, and arms) more than once. But it seemed that DB was busy with his old life.

  Wally thought about other folks he knew. Kate was real nice, but it sounded from Ana like she’d had enough of traveling for a while. He would have asked Ana, too, but she’d told him the Committee was sending her to China. The government there had specifically requested Ana’s consultations on a series of giant dams they were building.

  He toyed with the idea of contacting Jamal Norwood. Stuntman had probably learned a whole lot about finding missing people while working for SCARE. Plus, he was real tough. And he sorta owed Wally for all that stuff he said back on American Hero. But Jamal would never agree to help him. Plus, Wally didn’t want to travel with somebody who disliked him so much. Even he could foresee an awkward and unpleasant conversation.

  One more name sprang to mind: Jerusha Carter. Gardener’s ace couldn’t be better suited to traveling through Africa. She was perfect for the trip in just about every way. He even knew her, a little bit.

  It took some calling around to other Committee members before he got Jerusha’s cell number. Wally reclined on the bed in his hotel room. The mattress groaned; somewhere halfway across the country, a telephone rang.

  “Hello?” A weary voice, thick with fatigue. Behind it, what sounded like voices raised in quiet song, like they were singing hymns or something. Not like in church, though. It sounded more like a vigil.

  “Um, hi. Jerusha?”

  “Yes.” Her voice got distant, and the background noise got louder, as if she was holding the phone away from her face to look at the caller ID. “Who is this?”

  “It’s me, Wally. Gunderson. You know, Rustbelt? We worked together when the Committee sent us to Timor.”

  “Oh, Wally. I thought I recognized your voice.” A pause. “What’s up?”

  “I was wondering—um, are you okay? You sound real tired. No offense or anything.”

  “Uh . . . it’s been a tough few days down here. Did you hear about Michelle? Her parents?”

  “Yeah. It’s a bad deal.” The thought of Bubbles helpless like that—at the mercy of others—made him think of Lucien, and brought on another pang of anxiety.

  “Really bad.” Jerusha sighed, loudly. “Anyway. What’s up?”

  Wally didn’t know the best way to broach the subject. He plunged ahead: “Do you wanna go to Africa with me?”

  “Why is Lohengrin sending you to Africa?”

  “He’s not,” said Wally.

  Another pause. “Huh?”

  Wally explained the situation.

  “So . . . you want me to go to the PPA to help you find your pen pal?”

  “Yep. Well, no, I mean, I thought we’d go to the Congo, where Lucien’s from.”

  Jerusha said, “That’s in the PPA.”

  “Oh.”

  “Ugh, Wally . . .” Wally recognized that tone. It was the sound of somebody cradling her head in her hands. “Say. Why did you ask me?”

  Oops. “Well, you’re real smart. And you know about jungles and stuff. And you’re, um . . .”

  “I’m what?”

  “Black.”

  “Uh-huh.” Jerusha’s tone here was a little harder to read. Maybe he shouldn’t have said that. “Look. What you’re trying to do is very sweet. But I think you’re biting off more than you can chew. Even with that giant jaw of yo
urs. Besides, I have my hands full down here.”

  “What if I came and helped out?”

  “That’s nice of you, but it wouldn’t change my answer.”

  “Oh.”

  “Sorry, Wally. Don’t do anything rash, okay?”

  “You bet.”

  Wally stared at the ceiling. That’s in the PPA. He hadn’t put that together before. He knew a little about the PPA; that whole mess down in New Orleans, Bubbles and all, was tied up with the PPA. He knew that much. But until she’d said it, he hadn’t associated Tom Weathers and Dr. Nshombo and the PPA with Lucien’s Congo.

  All the more reason to go to Africa, and the sooner the better. All the more reason to find a traveling companion. But the more he thought about it, the more Jerusha seemed the best choice.

  Friday,

  November 27

  The Winslow Household

  Boston, Massachusetts

  A Legacy of Noel’s previous profession was an inability to sleep any deeper than a doze. He awakened when the mattress shifted as Niobe left the bed. Cold grey dawn seeped around the edges of the blue velvet drapes, and Noel could hear snow pecking at the windows. He snuggled deeper under the down comforter, and was headed back to sleep when a tiny whimper of fear from the bathroom sent him leaping out of bed. “Niobe!”

  At the same moment she called out, “Noel!” The panic in her voice squeezed his heart.

  He ran to the bathroom, the legs of his pajamas whipping at his ankles. She was sitting on the toilet with her arms wrapped around her stomach. He dropped to his knees in front of her.

  “I’m cramping.”

  “Bad?” he asked.

  “Not as bad as last time,” she replied through white lips.

  Oddly she was staring at a point where the tile met the porcelain side of the bathtub rather than at him. Noel had a sudden memory as they had stood on the rocky beach of a distant Scottish island, and she had told him how she had tried to cut off the damning mark of her jokerdom, and win back her parents’ love. He glanced at the thick white scars that twisted across her tail. She had nearly bled to death in the bathroom of her family home. Noel realized this was the room. And that bitch put us in here. He again felt that shaking desire to kill his mother-in-law. “I’m taking you to the clinic.”